


favors called

by Zekkass



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Electricity Play, First Time, M/M, One Shot, PWP, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8473816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekkass/pseuds/Zekkass
Summary: Swindle's out to get an overload from his new unit leader. Onslaught's not as straightforward as he seems.





	

Swindle sits on the berth, weighing his curiosity against his greed even at this late hour as he waits for Onslaught to arrive. It's an unremarkable set of quarters he's chosen for this rendezvous, unmarked by any personal belongings. The perfect neutral grounds for the gamble he's about to undertake.

The door swishes open. Swindle looks up, fully aware of the visual he must present: his relaxed seat on the berth, the powered down status of his defenses, and of course the luminous glow of his optics. Signs of vulnerability, usually as attractive to soldiers as going around with his 'facing panels open would be.

Onslaught's optic band flickers, but that's his only reaction as he steps inside, letting the door slide shut behind him.

"What do you want?" He asks, tone neutral. Swindle expects suspicion, used to it from his new teammates. His greed is famous, preceding his reputation as a reliable merchant and transport, resourceful and reliable - so of course they suspect him of double-dealing whenever he tries to get them to open up.

They aren't entirely wrong about his motives, but he would be remiss in his duties as a unit member by neglecting to gather information about his potential customers - teammates.

"To call in a favor," Swindle says, pushing past his habitual greed. This gamble - if it works - will help him work with Onslaught. Once he's through Onslaught's ever-present neutral facade and know how he really ticks - he'll know what to offer him.

Onslaught says nothing, crossing his arms and waiting.

"I'm not asking for anything material," Swindle says, lifting his hands to offer his palms. "It's simple for you - I cash in the favor, we can forget about the little matter at Beris-4, the slate's clear."

Silence. Onslaught doesn't ask him what he wants in exchange, refusing to take up his end of the conversation. It could be frustrating.

"All I want," Swindle goes on with an easy smile. "Is for you to bring me to overload - with one condition. You use your glossae. Simple, right?"

It stings him to throw away a favor for something so simple, but he needs to know: does Onslaught have a pride that could get in the way of reasonable deals? What does he think of overloads as currency? More importantly - does he even have glossae under that faceplate?

Onslaught's optic band flickers, his posture stiffening ever so slightly, and there's a long klik or two of silence as he processes the request. Swindle'd kill for a device that would let him read what's going on a mech's processors - he's even looked into studying communications mechs and studying their specialized mods and sensors - but unfortunately he's not ready to practically reformat himself for such touchy systems, and not even his greed can talk him into it.

So he waits until Onslaught nods once and smoothly drops to his knees next to the berth with a loud clang.

Swindle shuffles to the edge of the berth, holding his legs open as Onslaught unfolds his arms to hold his knees, pushing them much wider apart.

"Hold still," Onslaught orders, and Swindle resists a pleased shiver as Onslaught takes charge, arranging him how he likes on the edge of the berth, touching his windshields and sliding one big hand down to his hips, then over his panels.

"Which would you like?" Swindle asks, obligingly holding still. "Valve or spike?"

"Valve," Onslaught says, and whatever thought Swindle would like to devote to analyzing that choice is put the side as Onslaught doesn't wait for him to unlatch his own panels - he deftly slides it open manually.

His faceplate cracks open and retracts, revealing a disappointingly straightforward set of intakes. Swindle places the maker and factory instantly - it's face seven from the Tarnic factories, one of the most widely used faces amongst soldiers. Still, he files that information away in case he ever has to rebuild his commander, and braces himself for a pleasing-but-unexciting overload.

After all, it's not that likely Onslaught has experience in the berth, given his rank and demeanor - 

Onslaught flicks his outer node, opening his mouth and extending - yes, standard glossae - but they're scarred, with visible nicks and scratches in the delicate sensors, and Swindle's optics widen as he tries to figure out what could cause damage to _those._

His outer node is flicked again, then twisted, and Onslaught hums knowingly as he pinches Swindle tighter, interrupting all of his thoughts as he jerks up with a moan.

"Can't stay still," Onslaught comments, hardly chiding as he bends down to flick his glossae against his valve, then pushing them inside. It's impossible to feel the damage even through sensitive nodes and mesh, but Swindle tries, tries to hold still as he needs to squirm as Onslaught proves he knows how to work his glossae just _right_ \- 

Onslaught's field flickers with amusement, something Swindle's never felt from him before, a signal that makes him wary for something, but - 

Abruptly he jerks back, calling out with wordless pleasure, vocalizer spitting static and broken sounds as he overloads hard. It felt - it felt like a surge of charge had burst in his valve, as if something hot and electric - 

Thought stops as it happens again, and Swindle jerks and writhes as Onslaught continues to work his glossae in his valve, engine rumbling with satisfaction.

"Wh - " Swindle can hardly form a word, and stops as he moans, vocalizer clicking as he continues to jerk and writhe. It goes on - Onslaught's trying to fry his systems, trying to short-circuit him - 

It stops. Onslaught leans back as Swindle lays in a daze, blinking at the ceiling.

"I run a current through my glossae," Onslaught says without prompting. "And that was three overloads - two favors. For me."

Swindle pushes himself up on his elbows, frame quivering as he stares at Onslaught.

Onslaught smiles at him, then closes his faceplate and turns on his heel.

At the door on his way out - "Duty at seven hundred tomorrow. Don't be late." - And he's gone.

"Frag!" Swindle bursts out, and he hisses as he closes his valve panel. He's sore and his valve stings and he's still running leftover charge - and he's been played. Thoroughly. Frag.

It's hard not to be impressed.


End file.
